Life in Three Colors
by trichromatic life
Summary: Edgeworth's chilly tale of how he tries to find his place in the world, his questions of what his purpose is, and his strong - yet hidden - desire to know what it's like to be loved. WxE. slash later. rated for language and possibly disturbing accounts.
1. Prologue

Hello, all! I truly hope you like this... I spent what seems like _ages_ on it. Anywho, this story will contain OC's. The reporter here also appears in the Epilogue, and that's all. And Franziska's "unnamed older sister" has a name and a history in here. But she only appears in the Prologue, and she is only talked about. Later in the story, there will be OC's, but that's only because law offices have so many freaking people.... most of my OC's are just fillers, but people like Timothy Judd (whose character took FOREVER to develop) will be amongst the primary characters. And he'll be introduced later.

Anywho, standard disclaimers apply. (I really don't know why people bother with those.... we all know that nobody here owns these characters.) Nobody belongs to me except Mlle. de Lancret, Adelaide, Judd (who appears later), and any other random filler OC's.

~tl

(p.s. - a note on the Epigraph: some of you may not recognize the biblical Book of Wisdom. That's because Wisdom is a Book in the Roman Catholic Bible. kthnx.)

_******_

_"For not even [their chamber] protected them from fear, but terrifying sounds rang out around them, and dismal phantoms with gloomy faces appeared. And no power of fire was able to give [them] light, nor did the brilliant flames of the stars avail to illumine that hateful night. Nothing was shining through to them except a dreadful, self-kindled fire, and in terror... still heavier than darkness were they to themselves." _

_- Wisdom of Solomon 17:4-6, 21_

_******_

**Time: January, 2068 (Herr Edgeworth, 76; Frau von Karma, 69)**

**Place: von Karma manor, Munich, Germany**

**Weather: overcast, chilly, light rain**

The room's lighting was acceptable; it was dimmed slightly because the dark burgundy drapes had been previously drawn in order to rule out any view of the Outside. The young French girl - perhaps in her mid-twenties and almost certainly right out of journalism school - was wondering just why the drapes were drawn, seeing as it was a slightly overcast day, and there was no bright sunlight that may disturb the eyes. In fact, it was raining lightly.

She walked over to one of the windows and stood before it, inspecting the drapes. They were, indeed, a deep burgundy color, and they had empire valences that swooped up and down in a perfect scalloped trim. The drapes themselves reached the floor – the dusty floor – and their golden trim had flakes of dust sticking to it. She reached out ever-so-softly to touch one of the drapes, as though she were touching a very ancient article from a museum – something that had come from the past in order to allow her to rip into history and see what it means to be alive now – _now..._ a time of complete relativity because really, once you start saying the word more than three times to yourself, it sounds like nonsense. And what "now" is to us, the young French journalist decides, was completely unheard of in the past. And what is "past" to us was "now" to them. So, really... all time _is_ is one huge continuum, and we are just specks on a much grander scale.

She lightly runs her fingers over the drapes, and she can tell it is made of a heavy velvet fabric – "_Perfect for this dreary winter season,"_ she thinks to herself.

After several minutes, she shifts the file folders in her arms - as well as the voice recorder – and walks over to a settee in the back of the room. She dusts off a spot, sets her documents down upon the oaken coffee table in front of the old sofa, and sits down after straightening her ankle-length black skirt. After folding her hands in her lap she sits – with unprecedented posture – and waits for the man she is to interview.

A bookcase, lonely, stood in one corner of the room, and the girl noticed this when she turned her porcelain head. It was made of rosewood and had glass doors, through which she could see the many shelves and books within. They were covered with thin layers of dust; some of the flakes were falling like snow onto the bottom of the case. Her soft brown eyebrows creased slightly, wondrously. _"I wonder why everything is so dusty..." _

The young journalist, Mademoiselle Madeline de Làncrét, had been waiting patiently on the settee for approximately half an hour when the man she was to interview at last entered the old, rather dusty room. Mlle. de Làncrét had basic background information on the man, and, to her surprise, he looked quite well, albeit being in a wheelchair. Of course, even if she hadn't been provided basic background information, she would have still known of him – after all, who in Europe didn't? The man was practically a legend. The woman pushing his wheelchair was a legend, as well. Both had several things in common, aside from being legends.

One of those things was that they both had a relationship to the infamous, scheming Herr Manfred von Karma who, according to one anonymous attorney's opinion which "accidentally" got leaked to the press, was so exceptionally dishonest that it would be a _very _cold day in hell, indeed, before _that _man would produce a clean bit of evidence in court. And, according to rumors, the two kids he brought up weren't much better. (Well, actually he had three – two biological and one adopted – but the third... well... it was said that she ran away when she was thirteen and lived in various institutions until her death, the date of which nobody ever found out.)

Another thing they had in common was that both of them were always struggling to be perfect. Von Karma wouldn't have it any other way, and his two clones would sooner hang themselves then have his death be in vain. Well, that is, both of them did until the adopted one found out that the old man murdered his biological father. However, by this time, von Karma's ways were so thoroughly etched into his brain that he couldn't go a separate road if he tried.

And, yet another thing – one that Mlle. de Làncrét did not know –was that at least one of them, if not both, had a very troubled past. Mlle. de Làncrét knew about the man having to grow up under the mentorship of his father's murderer, but there was more to his tormented past than that. And the young French journalist didn't quite know what, exactly, she was getting herself into.

As the man in the wheelchair entered the room, Mlle. de Làncrét looked at him briefly, then she looked up at the woman who was pushing him. She looked as though she had seen far too much during her life – seen things that she wished she hadn't have. Wrinkles creased about her eyes, and, as Mlle. de Làncrét looked harder, a fleeting thought passed through her mind – _"She looks so... tired..."_ Not tired from lack of sleep, but rather tired from life's web of harsh realities – realities that she didn't want to believe were real, so she continuously withdrew into herself in order to try to escape.

"Hello," the woman greeted softly in a German accent. She sounded distant, and her eyes were searching... for what? Hope? "I am Franziska von Karma. This," she spoke while indicating the man in the wheelchair, "is my brother, Miles Edgeworth." She sighed lightly, put a hand on her brother's shoulder, then bowed her head. "Welcome to our home."

"Thank you for having me, Frau von Karma," Mlle. de Làncrét said in a polite voice, having stood up when Franziska and her brother entered the room. Although she was distinctly French, she knew her German titles well. "I'm Madeline de Làncrét. It..." – she swallowed – "... it is truly an honor, Frau von Karma."

"An honor to interview my brother and I about our lives?" the woman replied, sounding a bit amused. Madeline was confused.

"Why... of course. Should it not be?"

"Let the girl have her fun, Franziska," the famous Herr Edgeworth replied, sounding as though he'd smoked a bit too much in his youthful days. "She looks like an upcoming journalist; if she wants to interview us as her first job, let her." He took a break to sigh before continuing. "You're only young once, you know. You only have one chance to lead a nice life..." Herr Edgeworth spoke in a soft, almost sad, voice.

"Yeah... guess you and I blew that..." his sister mused, sighing. She continued softly, "And Addie didn't even get a chance."

"..." Herr Edgeworth couldn't reply to that. Madeline wondered what he was thinking. _"Addie must be short for Adelaide..." _she thought to herself.

"So... um... shall we start?" Madeline asked in a cautious tone, breaking an awkward silence that had settled about them.

"If you wish," Herr Edgeworth answered formally, his voice monotone and his eyes like stones, staring at the drawn burgundy drapes as though he was seeing through them. Franziska only shrugged and left her brother's side to pull up a cushioned chair next to his wheelchair. The pair sat on the opposite side of the coffee table than Madeline, and she began to wonder if this interview was a bad idea.

"Right... well..." Madeline began, gathering her file folder in her arms. Herr Edgeworth visibly shuddered, and Madeline was not blind to this. _"I wonder why..."_ She watched as Franziska put a comforting hand on her brother's arm. "Did... what did I say?" Madeline asked, concerned.

"Nothing," Frau von Karma answered, perhaps a bit too snappily because Madeline blinked and looked taken aback. "N-nothing," she repeated, a bit more calmly this time. "It's fine. Just... continue."

"Okay." Mlle. de Làncrét pushed the "play" button on the voice recorder and began speaking. "So, all I really know is that the two of you moved to America several years after... well..." she was obviously having problems."After the incident, and –"

"You lie," Franziska interrupted in a blunt manner, her voice flat. "You know more than that. Journalists always do. And don't refer to it as 'the incident.' You damn well know what happened just as well as we do, so don't keep shut up about it. If you think we can't handle it, then you are direly wrong. Our lives have been hell on earth, and... what did you call it? ... _'the incident'_ isn't even a fraction in the whole circle."

"O-okay, then. The both of you left for America a few years after your sister, Adelaide, ran away."

"That is correct," Herr Edgeworth confirmed.

"Why did she?"

"I believe you know," Franziska answered.

"I don't. I only know what the tabloids said years ago, when she..." - Mlle. de Làncrét had to take a deep breath - "... died. And besides, those only stated what happened after she left your home."

"Those 'rumors' are correct. I had hired someone to check with every mental hospital the papers said she was a resident of, and he told me that she had, in fact, stayed in all of them. As to why she ran away... well, our father didn't want either of us. He wanted boys so the family name wouldn't die out. He wanted us to become a dynasty. But, instead of Adelric and Franz, he got stuck with Adelaide and Franziska. When I was two-years-old, he adopted Miles. He finally had his precious son. He treated Miles with all the love he didn't give Addie and me, and I was able to take it. She wasn't. She was three years older than I was, but somehow I could handle not being loved better than she could. She lived with it for as long as she could, but when she was thirteen, she couldn't take it anymore. One night, she had a particularly ugly argument with our father. They were yelling and screaming..." – a tear fell from Frau von Karma's left eye – "... she yelled at him... asked if there was ever a time in her life when he loved her at all. She asked if it was really that hard. His answer to her was a slap across her face."

"She screamed... horribly... and ran out the front door," Herr Edgeworth finished the story. He shrugged. "We never saw her again. I think von Karma was afraid that the incident might leave a scar on his career's reputation... but at least with her gone, in his opinion, there'd be one less mouth to feed."

"Not that it would've mattered. We weren't exactly poor," Frau von Karma scoffed. Then she sighed. Madeline couldn't say anything for approximately two minutes.

"God, as long as I live, I'll never forget that scream..." Herr Edgeworth murmured, haunted, staring at the drapes. A clap of thunder could be heard in the distance.

"Frau von Karma," Mlle. de Làncrét began in a cautious tone, "you said before that, compared with the whole circle, this incident doesn't match to a fraction. But you and your brother seem highly upset right now... can you tell me the reasoning behind your previous statement?"

"Adelaide's leaving... it left a scar. After Miles finished his studies, we decided to leave Europe. I couldn't stay here – not with what had happened. And Miles had come to love Addie like his own flesh and blood. He couldn't stay, either. We decided to move to America; even though it was across the world, everyone said it was the Land of Opportunity, so we figured we would try it out. We even found a way to get naturalized so that we could be citizens there and here. Anyway... it was over there where the real horrors were."

"I... I don't understand... the both of you – you were brilliant. Herr Edgeworth, you were an astounding attorney. What happened that..."

"... Made me go downhill completely?" Herr Edgeworth interrupted flatly.

"Precisely."

"I have bipolar disorder, for one thing. I know, surprising, isn't it? Well... unlike years ago, I am no longer ashamed to admit it. Hell, I don't even know if I have anything worth being ashamed of anymore – my life was such a fucking mess; I don't know if I even give a damn. In any case, for another, I was questioning what I was supposed to be doing in this world, and if what I was doing was the right thing. After all, I was young... questioning one's career was a normal thing back then. I mean... it's not like you quit or anything; you still stuck with it. But you were allowed to wonder if what you were sticking with was what you were _supposed_ to be doing." Here, he took a moment to sigh. "And, for a third..."

"Yes?"

"..."

"..."

"Don't fall in love," Herr Edgeworth advised in a grave voice.

"E-excuse me, Herr Edgeworth?" Mlle. de Làncrét replied, very much confused.

"Don't fall in love," he replied.

"W-why not?"

"Because, if you do..." at this, his breath hitched a bit. Frau von Karma grasped his hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb. He exhaled slowly before continuing. "If you do, the only thing that you can ever be promised is that you'll be hurt. And when one is all ready spending half one's life in a fucking bipolar hell, letting something like _love_ enter one's life is the ultimate stop to any master plan one might have." A silence filled the room for several minutes, and the rain outside could be heard against the hidden window panes. All three of them could almost _hear_ how cold the rain was that chilly winter afternoon.

Herr Edgeworth broke the silence. "You know... I really dislike rain. It's as though the angels are crying."

Franziska squeezed her brother's hand tighter.


	2. Chapter One

As the taxicab drives past the Chemical Bank – at a slow rate, one might add, because it is stuck in a mess of gridlock – if one turns his head to look out the slightly-tainted window, one's eyes will be gifted with the sight of the phrase "ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE" scrawled across the side of the building in crimson, spray-painted letters. Soon after passing the vandalized building (which, no doubt, the City of Los Angeles will end up having to hose down before the end of the day), a bus pulls up beside the taxicab with an advertisement for _Les Misérables_ taking up the entire side - and poor Fantine has the word "whore" badly written across her face in black spray paint.

Upon seeing both these sights, one of the taxicab's inhabitants sighs with an accompanying rolling of his eyes. Another merely arches his eyebrows as though things like this happen everyday and, really, if this traffic doesn't _hurry the bloody hell up_, they're going to be late for work, damnit. The third occupant – who happens to be the driver – is half asleep and, even if he wasn't, he couldn't have cared less, anyway, because vandalism isn't his job to clean up - it's the city workers' jobs. (And, yes, he works for the city, but he's in the public transit department, which is totally different than cleaning up the "artwork" of stupid brainless teenagers.)

And, as happens every year, April Fool's Day has come, once again, to Los Angeles.

Timothy Judd is a public prosecutor for the Los Angeles County District Attorney's office, twenty-seven-years-old, and of British origin. He also knows Dante Alighieri like the back of his hand, and he is _not impressed_ with the words so carelessly spray-painted on the Chemical Bank.

"It would have been more impressive, had they used the _original_ language," Judd remarks (only slightly) condescendingly to his roommate, co-counsel, and – in all honesty – the one person who will actually put up with his complaining.

"What on earth are you going on about _now_?" Edgeworth asks, sounding rather bored.

"The Chemical Bank. Obviously they got the phrase from Dante."

"Judd..." Edgeworth brought his hands up to his face and began rubbing his eyes. "Please don't start your ridiculous nonsense now... it's too early..."

"What? Are you happy with his words being written in English? And, by the way, you are being _quite_ redundant. 'Ridiculous' and 'nonsense' being juxtaposed as such have an air of redundancy."

"To be bluntly honest, I don't give a damn. And furthermore, if you want to care one way or the other, you should be irate, seeing as vandalism is supposed to be against the law. You are a lawyer, you know. And, as for being... _redundant_... nonsense can very well _be_ ridiculous. In fact, it _is_. There is no _point_ to it. Nonsense is just stupid. Now, if I were to use 'silly' and 'ridiculous' in the same sentence, then I could see how you could find it redundant. But to use –"

"... Are you _quite_ finished, yet?" Judd interrupted in a bored tone, arching his left eyebrow. Now _this_ got on Edgeworth's nerves. Not only was Judd often interrupting him, but the man always arched his left eyebrow. He never bothered to arch the right one – always the left one. Edgeworth couldn't even lift one by itself; he always had to lift both. But if the bastard was going to be lifting his damn eyebrows all the time, at least he could change it up a bit.

"Well, I wasn't, but I suppose I am now. And stop arching your left eyebrow. It's... annoying."

"What's _annoying_ is that you got our damned _car_ wrecked so that we're having to take this stupid damned _taxi_ to work. Do you _know_ how much this is going to _cost_ us?"

"Not exactly, no."

"... Do you even _care_?"

"... Not necessarily," was the reply Judd got. Judd rolled his eyes and audibly sighed, just so Edgeworth would know how annoyed he was. "Oh, come _on_, Judd. Honestly. It's not as though we are _horrendously_ poor. I mean, we do make _some_ money. And besides, it's either this, or walk to work, so..."

"If _you_ hadn't have wrecked our _only_ car, we wouldn't _have_ to pay to get to work in the _first_ place."

"..."

"Fucking traffic," Judd muttered under his breath before reaching a hand up to massage his forehead.

Judd was wearing a black pinstriped blazer and trousers by Joseph A. Bank (that is, black suit, ivory pinstripes), a (what Edgeworth perceived to be) cotton shirt with French cuffs by Ralph Lauren, and a pure silk tie - also courtesy of Ralph Lauren. The man's black hair was slicked back with eucalyptus oil, and nobody ever assumed a thing. They probably never would. Hell, even the district attorney herself hadn't assumed anything about him so far. And that was a good thing; if she did, he would be history faster than one could say "_Das Kapital_." And if the presiding district _judge_ ever found out, he would lose his association with the Mile High Club, and, _damn_, would the press have a field day – "Traitorous Prosecutor Embraces the Reds."

Even worse – he'd probably find some way to drag Edgeworth down with him, and that would be the end of his career, needless to say his life, as well. _I practically only have one friend, and he's a damned commie. Somebody _please _tell me why this shit happens to me. Why can't it happen to some bastard like Payne? _

However, as traffic starts to speed up a bit, and the gridlock begins working its way out of itself, Edgeworth is pulled from his thoughts as Judd starts on a monologue about life. "I'm resourceful. I'm creative. I'm young. I mean... not as young as you, but... I'm not ancient like the D.A. –"

"She's only thirty, Judd. You'll be there in three years, keep in mind," Edgeworth reminded, yawning. _I hate traffic. _

"Shut up. You'll be there in five, mate. Anyway, I'm saying that she can_not_ afford to lose me. I'm an _asset_."

"Okay, then. Don't let her find out that you're planning on resurrecting the Bolsheviks, and you should be fine."

"You're very funny Edgeworth. What I mean is, am I _alone_ in thinking that we're not making enough money? I mean, _everybody_ hates their job these days. _I_ hate my job; _you've_ told me you hate yours. The hell are we supposed to do, eh?"

"Turn into traitors." Edgeworth smirked. He knew it wouldn't work. Hell, he'd probably get killed if he went along with it.

"I'm _not_ going over to _their_ side," Judd practically hissed.

"Brilliant gusto there, Judd. Never knew you hated your job, though. But, you are right; it _would_ never work. I'd probably get killed if we actually went through with it."

"I'm just not doing it. They're a bunch of elitist bastards."

"They're like another race," Edgeworth said, laughing beside himself.

"They _are_. There's no 'like' to it, Edgeworth. They _are_ another race. It's like democrats and republicans. You just can_not_ get through to them."

"Or like capitalists and commies?" Edgeworth suggested with an arch of his eyebrows.

"_Precisely_."

Edgeworth leaned over and reached down to the floor of the taxicab, grabbing hold of his black leather attaché case (meanwhile, Judd glanced at his own, appraising both, and making sure that his was better). After opening it, he pulled out a copy of the _Times_, and Judd proceeded to successfully steal it from him.

"Lets see what's going on in our beloved state, hmm? Oh, wow, all right. In one issue - _one_ issue - strangled models, kids killed in the subway, a Neo-Fascist rally, drug smuggling from Mexico, baseball players on steroids, more drugs, gridlock, gridlock, homeless shelter burns down via Molotov cocktail, various maniacs, mental hospitals accused of 'sketchy and possibly illegal' treatment methods, _more_ gridlock, the homeless, surrogate mothers, cancellation of 'As the World Turns' - the_ hell_? Who _cares_? - okay, anyway... uh... oh, listen to this – Fascists gather in underground meetings, mother gives birth to crack babies... whoa, Edgeworth, brace yourself – _plant_ _fetishist_ put in state mental hospital for further study..." At this, Judd threw the paper across the seat at Edgeworth. "And the joke – the real punch line of this – is that all this shit is in _this city_. Nowhere else but here. Edgeworth, we live in a fucked up place. _Please _tell me why we're living here. We're both Europeans; tell me why we don't just go back."

"... better healthcare?"

"I would say 'nice save' except for the bit in the paper about the mental hospitals being accused of 'sketchy and possibly illegal' treatment methods."

"Touché."

*********

Upon arriving at the LADA office, Edgeworth was first to exit the taxicab, as he was sitting next to the door which opened to the curb, and _damned_ if Judd was going to get out onto the street. Edgeworth straightened his suit and dusted himself off (as Judd, meanwhile, did the same while muttering that taxicabs should be cleaner) before walking a few steps forward. The driver rolled down the window to the passenger's seat. (Why it was ever coined the "passenger's seat" in the _first_ place was always a mystery to all, seeing as nobody ever used the front seat.)

"How much will the fare be, sir?" Edgeworth asked.

"Thirty-three dollars and ninety cents, sir," the driver replied. Edgeworth looked at Judd as though their rent had come early.

"Your own fault," Judd answered in a sing-song voice.

"Sir," Edgeworth started in an obviously cajoling voice, "it was only twenty minutes to get here. _Certainly_ the fare cannot be _that_ high for just –"

"The two o' you are lawyers, ain't 'ya?" the driver asked bluntly. "I should think _you're_ rich enough to pay for it."

"Served," Judd muttered, laughing under his breath. Edgeworth sent him a glare before turning back to the driver.

"We actually don't make that much money."

"Well you make more than me; I'll guarantee you that."

Judd, meanwhile, was having quite a time watching Edgeworth try to bargain with this guy.

"Would you like to split the fare, Timothy?" Edgeworth asked, turning – once again – from the driver to Judd, who only snorted at the usage of his first name. He knew all too well that Edgeworth only used his first name when he wanted something.

"No, actually, I don't. Now please _do_ pay the kind man before we're late and Ms. Skye – or, should I say,_ Lana_ – kicks both our arses," Judd replied, making fun of Edgeworth's usage of first names.

"Humor me, then, and just split it, anyway," Edgeworth said, sounding on the verge of explosion.

"No, I don't think I will."

At this, Edgeworth growled and jammed his hand into his blazer pocket, reaching for his wallet. _The jerk_.

"_Here_," he threatened, thrusting the cab fare at the driver's face. The man proceeded to count the money to make sure it was the right amount, and this bristled Edgeworth enough. "Do you _honestly_ think that I would underpay you? I am an enforcer of the _law_, damnit! I'm _not _dishonest!"

Judd rolled his eyes. "Here we go..." he muttered, looking about to make sure they weren't catching too much attention.

"You're a lawyer, ain't 'ya?" the driver asked, not stopping counting the fare for one second, letting Edgeworth rant all he wanted.

"Well... quite!"

"Okay, then." He continued counting.

"..."

"All right, s'all here. You two are okay to go."

Edgeworth growled, and Judd put a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, kitty..."

"Shut up." He shrugged Judd's hand off his shoulder and started toward the office entrance, Judd heading behind him.

"You _do_ know that nobody trusts lawyers, right? They all think we're just a bunch of lying bastards who don't care about anybody - only about getting paid."

"Well, _that's_ a highly ignorant concept. _We_ don't get paid much at all," Edgeworth argued back.

"True. But the _other_ side does."

"Aren't _we_ supposed to be seen as good, anyway? Because we put people in jail so they can't... oh, I don't know..." – Edgeworth randomly tossed his hand through the air as though he were waiting for the words to come to him – "... get at anyone else or anything?"

"Well... yes... but we're _also_ seen as horrible and scheming because of the same reason. I think those defense guys are seen as better because they supposedly 'help' people."

"Yeah, but _they_ get jobs helping guilty bastards. And don't say their actual title."

"How do you know those bastards aren't guilty just because we say they are? And besides... why can't I say their actual title?"

"They're guilty because they're _guilty_, Judd. And... just don't. They're another _race_, after all."

Judd smirked at this. Edgeworth couldn't explain himself out of something – for once in his life. This could be fun.

"... Defense."

"Shut up."


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: hello, all! *waves* I just wanted to thank everyone who's been reading so far, regardless if you've given me feedback or not. if you've bothered to read this story, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I seriously didn't think anybody would read this, and, if they did, I didn't think they'd read beyond the Prologue. so... thank you lot. ^.^ **

**Anywho... if you haven't guessed all ready, this story is a bit AU. it deals more with the actual court system than the game does, and that's only because I go to a school with a lot of people who're going to be either doctors or lawyers, so... I spend a lot of my time around people who discuss politics. it's going to be more serious, even though the first two chapters - the last one, and this one - probably seem like I wrote them while on a caffeine high (which is actually true). it WILL get serious, I swear to you guys. I know that a ton of you lot are probably expecting seriousness instead of a bunch of crack because the Prologue was written with such an air of severity, and it will get that way. this chapter is pretty much just a background on how The Two Sides see each other. (you'll understand what "The Two Sides" are when you read this thing.) **

**HAH. I really, REALLY hope you lot like this chapter, because I had WAAAAAAAAAY too much fun writing it. for srsly, yo. if you can't tell I had fun writing it, then... well... I'm telling you right now, I had SERIOUS fun writing it. XDDD **

**I suppose I'm trying to have as much fun writing this as I can, before I have to write the depressing stuff. (damnit, WHY did I make the Prologue depressing?! I pretty much screwed it for myself. lol. now I have to make the story depressing, too. ah, well... maybe I'll write a happy one-shot or something along the way to lighten it up. maybe.)**

**ANYWHO, I'll stop stalling. PLEASE REVIEW, if you find it within your desire to do so. ^.^ on with the chapter, ne? **

**(P.s. - in case you lot haven't guessed yet, which you probably have, but just in case - I've written this so that the Prologue and Epilogue are in the "present," and and the bulk of the story is in the "past." you've probably all ready gotten this, but just in case you haven't, I decided to say that. ^.^ 'k, I'll shut up now. lol.)**

* * *

Their work made up the world in which Edgeworth and Judd lived. It was all they truly knew and mastered – well, apart from paying their monthly rent, that is. Their obligation (by virtue of having their job) was – according to Lana "the D.A." Skye – to "... adopt the highest standards of ethical behavior and professionalism." Moreover, it was "... integral to achieve the mission of the Office and share the District Attorney's obligation to enhance the fundamental right of the people of Los Angeles County to a safe and just society."

Although to some, phrases such as "ethical behavior" and "fundamental right of the people" were considered primitive, if not pre-18th century (i.e. _before_ the Constitution was signed), to most employees it was the final sentence that made nearly every one of them laugh, if not out loud, at least internally.

"... At _all times_ the mission of the District Attorney's Office shall be carried out in a fair, evenhanded, and compassionate manner."

The Office's "Mission Statement" was typed up, framed (Roman typeface, ivory paper, cherry wood frame with gilded edges), and nailed on one of the most prominent walls of the Office's entry area; Lana was definitely not being inconspicuous with this one. Several times when various employees would pass by that mission statement on their way to get coffee or otherwise avoid their work, they would stare at that last line, smirk, and think, _"Hah... 'evenhanded and compassionate' my ass."_

It wasn't a mystery to any of them; they all knew it was just pleasantly worded to please the state. Lana, herself, probably knew it when she wrote it; after all, she couldn't _possibly_ be _that_ dense, could she? Her employees formed themselves into cliques; what made her think they'd be "evenhanded and compassionate" to the general public if they couldn't even be civil with _each other_?

Of course, there were times when inter-clique civility was present. Such times were few and far between, of course, but the most common, if not only, one was when _The Other Side_ came into play.

The world in which Edgeworth and Judd lived did not consist of simple matters; things were always more complex than they seemed. It was for this sole reason that people – more often than not – learned to take things deeper than face-value. The world was called "The Law According to California," and the inhabitants were of various races.

There were The Misdemeanors, The Felonies (which Lana took exclusive care of, _thank God_), The Juvies, and The Others. Even amongst these were many various specimens of interest – for example: The Idiots Who Drink Alcohol on Forbidden Premises – the places which have signs that clearly say "DO NOT consume alcohol on this premises – VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED." (Edgeworth hated those types, in particular. Seriously – could they _not read_, or did they just _enjoy _getting in trouble with the law?) There were also The Meth Junkies, The Crackheads, The Acidheads, The Out-and-Out Ecstasy-Inebriated Idiots Who Barely Have a Brain Left when it comes time to testify, and The Various Other Druggies. Too, there were just The Kids Who Think They're "Too Cool for School," and Edgeworth hated these types almost as much as he hated The Idiots Who Drink Alcohol on Forbidden Premises. It's times like those when he's glad he doesn't have to see the defendants outside of the courtroom.

The more Civilized People living in The Law According to California are known as Lawyers. This group can be broken down into Tax Lawyers, Wrongful Death Lawyers, Civil Lawyers, Business Lawyers, and Others Who Have Really Sucky Jobs (... then again, who doesn't?) and Who Really Just Don't Matter That Much, but the two main groups are the Public Prosecutors and the Defenders – in other words, the Criminal Attorneys.

The Public Prosecutors are their own category, but the Defenders can be further broken down into two more categories - The Court-Appointed Public Defenders and The Thousands of Other Defense Attorneys That People Who're Rich Enough Hire.

The Defenders _hate_ the Prosecutors. And that's okay, because the sentiments lie equally on both sides.

In both groups, cliques are developed, and inter-clique rivalry happens. Cliques of Prosecutors tend to dislike other cliques of Prosecutors, and likewise on The Other Side. However, when the general Defense populace throws a Molotov cocktail into the general populace of the Prosecutors, all the Prosecutorial cliques forget about clique divisions and stand united against the Enemy. Vice versa applies.

Not only do The Two Sides, proper, dislike each other, but people who _work_ for The Two Sides tend to hate each other, too.

Secretaries working in the D.A.'s office tend to not like secretaries working for Defense firms. Once, a secretary (who was having a secret love affair with her beloved crystal meth) working for a Defense firm made called up the D.A.'s office, knowing that she'd get Georgia Snow, a secretary on The Side of the Prosecutors, yet one that was also having a love affair with meth, nonetheless. (The Defense secretary got Snow's number from one of her friends. Both the friend in question and the Defense secretary were low on their stash, and their dealer was making prices suspiciously high, so they were looking other places to get their meth fix. This pissed off the dealer when he found out, but it's not like the friend and the Defense secretary cared. People get pissed off all the time; the world's an imperfect place. You can't expect the world to make you happy _all_ the time. That's what's drugs are for, after all. _Duh._)

Apparently, the meth demon has many lovers and doesn't discriminate between what side of the courtroom a person's particular slant is.

Well, the meth'd-out D.A. Office secretary was more than willing to share some of her stash until she noticed the phone number was coming from the Public Defender's office. The Defense secretary made the mistake of calling a young woman working for the infamous Franziska von Karma. Frau von Karma's secretary tattled on the Opposing Secretary. She said that she had gotten a call from "... a corrupted secretary working for the Public Defender, demanding speed. I have no idea what she was on about; I don't even _do_ drugs!"

"Of course you don't, dear," Franziska replied, knowing full well that her secretary _did_ do drugs, and not giving a fraction of a damn about it because she, herself, smoked pot on her lunch break – behind Lana's back, of course.

Infuriated, Franziska sent her secretary down to the Public Defender's office with an 8-ball of artificial sweetener (cut with a bit of Splenda) from the communal coffee pot.

"If she's really desperate, she'll snort it, anyway, without even thinking to check," Franziska said, handing the bindle to her secretary.

"Ace. I'll be back in about thirty minutes, ma'am."

She _was_ back in thirty minutes, too - reporting to Franziska, with a huge devilish grin on her face, that the Defender's secretary was suffering a nosebleed from vigorously snorting Franziska's less-than-addictive brew.


End file.
